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CALEB STUKELY.

PART V.

HOME REVISITED.

It is a dull and dreary winter's day. The earth sleeps soundly, and on her rigid face appears no smile, to tell that dreams of spring are moving her with joy. The thick and heavy air hangs like a shroud upon her, and a frozen silence reigneth every where. The blood of life is numbed, and in the vegetable, as well as in the animal, performs its functions lazily. It is a day when sunny light becomes a paradox-cerulean sky, a pure impossibility; when crimson flowers, and laughing trees, and purling brooks, seem intimations from a poetic childhood, recollections of a splendid and far distant country, when summer thoughts bring with them shadowy recollections of a fairy land, pictures of time, and place, and circumstance, that had their birth and origin in the immortal mind, and whose existence was first revealed to us in sweet and cherished books. Winter is an envious churl, and it is difficult to realize the pleasant summer time if he stand by. Snow, a month old, lies about in clumps and patches, embrowned with age, hardened and coalesced by frost. Trees, whose spreading foliage has sheltered many times, and shall again protect, from heat and storm, the solitary wayfarer, stand defenceless now themselves dismantled skeletons. And yet how preferable their natural hybernal death to the unwholesome life of yew trees, that at intervals diversify and make more hideous the melancholy road; ever and anon starting upon my path like wandering spirits doomed to carry on a changeless and eternal life in a vast world of mutability.

Nearly two years have elapsed since the Cambridge Intelligence discharged me at Trinity Gate. The Huntingdon Coach carries me slowly, but too quickly, back to London. My university education is completed. My father is at my side. His cheek is very pale, and his brow wears a settled sadness. He has sighed many times, (has he not wept too?-Have I not watched it fall-the life-blood tear of

manhood?) but he has not spoken. He is wasted, and corroding care has fed upon his spirit. Ah! he is very ill, and I dare not ask how it is with him, and why he languishes the tongue of the criminal is tied. We are not alone. The coach contains another traveller, a man advanced in years, small in stature, blessed with a countenance that is radiant with benevolence his grey eyes twinkle with delight, and he is restless in his seat. Frequently the excited little man hurried to the coach window, looked into the road with an averted face, and then returned to his place with a moistened eye, or with a beamy smile illuminating the breadth and depth of his venerable and social visage. Sometimes he would attack his nose, and cough most vehemently, to make us understand how cruelly he suffered from a catarrh, and how little from the inundation of a mirth that would not be restrained; and sometimes he would hum a tune, and accompany the measure with his feet, to carry off, it might be, through many and various channels, the impetuous stream of gladness ever running from his heart. His tongue was at length obliged to help in the dismission of the current.

Bless him, bless him!" the gratified traveller ejaculated, and once more referring us to his nose for an explanation of his words Bless the deár boy's heart!”

My poor, cast-down father had not previously noticed our companion. He looked dejectedly at him now as he spoke.

“Don't mind me, don't mind me,” he continued, "I am the happiest man in the creation, but I am not crazy. Is that your son? Pardon my excessive rudeness.”

“He is, sir,” said my father.

"Then you understand all about it, and 1 needn't apologize. Listen to me, my dear sir, for five minutes, and tell me if I am not the luckiest man in the world with the exception of yourself, perhaps, I am sadly wanting in politeness. I married him this

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"Nor am I, but I hope to be one; and then my house won't hold me. If it's a boy, they intend to call him Jeremiah-that's after me, of course. What is the meaning of Jeremiah?"

My father confessed his ignorance, and the happy man proceeded. "The dear boy is five-and-twenty this very day; and, as true as I sit here, he has never knowingly caused me one moment's pain. I may never see him again. It was hard to part with him. Don't you think so?"

"A good son maketh a glad father' saith the proverb," replied my father in a mournful voice.

"Yes," added the stranger quickly, "and a foolish son is a grief to his father, and bitterness to her that bare him, that's a proverb too, although it is not so much in my way as the other. I'll swear your proverb's true," and he rubbed his hands with glee, whilst my father drooped.

"It is exactly ten years since I bound him apprentice to John Claypole, the brewer. You know him?"

Mr Stukely shook his head negatively.

"What, not know John Claypole? Oh yes, you do. You have seen that fine house on the Godmanchester road. That's his. My boy will live there

soon.

He deserves it. I have no notion of calling a man lucky who works his own way up to fortune. My dear Jack! who would have thought that he'd marry that sweet child of Claypole's! They are, though I say it, the prettiest-mated birds that ever coupled. There's something to look at, too, in Arabella-that's a curious name isn't it? foreign, I suppose - eh? Oh, dear me!" Now part of the little gentleman's joy oozed in perspiration down his forehead, and he cleared it off, and then continued, "I was saying something-oh yes, I bound him to his father-in-law-not his father

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in-law then, you know-that has only been since nine o'clock this morning. 'Jack,' said I, when I shook hands with him on the bridge ten minutes after his indentures were signed, 'Jack,' said I, we are very poor, but you have gentle blood flowing in your veins— don't disgrace us.' Father,' said he, I wont, depend upon it,' and he gave me a grasp of the hand in return for my own, which I have felt ever since whenever I talk or think about the lad. It is tingling now-it is really, sir-I don't romance," and now his joy checked his utterance, and his handkerchief was busy with his eyes. My father listened to the old man with earnestness, and his pale lip trembled. "When the child's time was out, that's just three years ago, his mother was taken ill, and, poor creature, died too soon. If you had seen the boy at her bedside for one whole month"

"How many miles is this from Huntingdon ?" enquired my father, interrupting him.

"The last stone was twenty-three. Where did I leave off, sir? Dear meHow very warm it is!"

"And yet it freezes hard," rejoined my father.

"Do you really say so? Ah, cold cannot freeze a father's heart-can it, sir? Well, his mother died, and then John Claypole sent for me; 'Jeremiah,' he said, (his father was second cousin to my wife's uncle, so being relations, he always called me by my christian name,) Jeremiah, your boy has two good qualities: he speaks the truth, and has an honourable respect for ha'pence. I shall take care of him?' And hasn't he taken care of him? Hasn't he given him a share in the brewery, and a share of his house, and his own daughter all to himself? And hasn't the dear boy taken care of his father, and made him comfortable for life? And hasn't his father seen him married this very day, and hadn't he better make the best of his way home and die at once, because he can never be so happy again if he lives to the age of Methuselah? I am so glad that you are a father, because you won't think me a fool for

the concluding words were drowned in the handkerchief. "You have much to be grateful for, sir;" said my father, ready to weep from a very different cause. are a happy man,"

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"No, sir; I am three happy men. I think you will find that to be correct, if you take the average. I trust I am sufficiently humble; my privileges are manifold."

That my feelings during this interesting scene were not of the most agreeable kind may easily be supposed. During my long service with my present worthy employer, I have had many opportunities of noticing the behaviour of culprits on particular occasions, especially in the dock of the Old Bailey, at those intensely pleasant moments when a communicative witness enters upon an affect ing portion of the said culprit's secret and domestic history. When, on these occasions, I have seen the brazen face throw off its metal, modestly avoid the public gaze, and languish gradually upon the breast; then have I, likewise, seen the tableau vivant of poor Caleb Stukely, pierced with remorse and shame, uneasy with the weight of his own head, and eager to evaporate, in the coach that carried him from Huntingdon.

The stranger grew more pleasant and loquacious; my father a more attentive listener. To me the latter did not address the shortest syllable. Although sitting at his side, I was in effect as much withdrawn from him as though an ocean rolled between us. He treated me with cold neglect. If his new acquaintance referred to me, and he often did so to gratify the parent's natural vanity, and to afford himself an excuse for a fresh recapi tulation of the merits of his own darling offspring, my father returned a short, quick answer, and avoided discussion on the subject. I was indeed abandoned, and I quailed before the just anger of a father, which divided us now as surely as we had been united by his previous confiding and unbounded love. Once only had I ventured to speak since we entered the coach; and my father neither replied to me nor turned his face towards

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"Speak to me, dear father!" I cried out.

"Be angry with me, upbraid me. I can never repair the cruel wrong that I have inflicted upon you. I deserve punishment. Do not spare it. I will bear it patiently, gladly. But speak to me, for God's sake! Speak harshly, reproachfully; but do speak!"

"Caleb ;" answered my father, moved by my importunity, and in a tone of sorrow, "there are upbraidings and reproaches waiting you at home that will fall upon you with pitiless violence. Bear them if you can. I have no punishment to inflict. The hot iron is prepared. I can promise you no mitigation of suffering. You have sown-you must reap; there is a retributive justice here. Good or evil deeds done in the flesh, are requited in the flesh. Gather yourself, then, and summon courage for the penalty. You will pay it shortly."

It was late at night when we reached home. The shops and houses were closed. The streets of busy London were as tranquil as a field of slumbering roses. The flickering lamps made darkness visible; and a heavy coach or two, at intervals, rendered silence audible. We rang at the door of our habitation, and a strange man, with a lantern in his hand, opened it.

"Who's that, Bolster?" enquired a loud uncouth voice, emanating apparently from the shop.

"All right, master;" replied the attendant, locking and bolting the door, whilst my father proceeded to the parlour, and I went after him.

"Who are these?" I asked, surprised and alarmed at the presence of these unexpected visiters; "what are these men?"

"Our masters, Caleb; be grateful to them, and show them all civility; we are here on sufferance.” "Dear father, what can you mean? Is not this our house?"

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"Our house is a large one. wide as the world itself. It is roofed only by heaven. This is the first reproach. I told you they would come

quickly. Our house, Caleb? We are beggars, houseless, pennyless, save what they allow in charity. They are very kind. We must not seem proud, or these men will get us turned out in revenge. I wouldn't care for myself, but what would you do? Stay here a minute; I will speak with them." Saying these words, he opened the parlour door which communicated with the shop, and joined the individuals who were sitting there. There were two; a small window permitted me to get sight of them. One was Mr Bolster-the gentleman who admitted us: the other, I concluded to be the person whom he had honoured with the title of superior. Both of them were dressed with the same elegance and taste; and both were endowed with that intelligent cast of features which generally denotes a first-rate education and an intimate acquaintance with things in general. Their eyes had evidently been to school from earliest infancy, and had learned all the languages. The other members of the facial family had been brought up with equal care, were beaming with the brightest polish, and had kept up steadily with the rapid march of civilization and scientific knowledge. They were gentle men certainly not in danger of falling victims to their simplicity or worldly innocence. Mr Bolster decorated the lower part of a very stout and ill-defined person with corduroy shorts, worsted stockings, and thick half boots. His head was divided from the rest of his body by a belcher handkerchief which supplied the place of a neck-a superfluous portion of "the form divine," with which Mr Bolster had never been troubled. He wore a costermonger's coat, and a yellow waistcoat. He had a short and bristly head of hair; and in the centre of a lew, flat, retreating, but by no means ugly forehead, he carried a stupendous wen; an enlargement possibly of the organ of benevolence or conscientiousness, if either of these sentiments lie hereabouts in the human skull. The Master" was tall and scraggy, lacking flesh, but framed with bones of antediluvian form and structure. His dress was of the same character as Bolster's, a thought fresher, perhaps, in respect of colour yet this might be a fancy suggested by the knowledge of their different

conditions-but the expression of his countenance was very dissimilar. Master and man had seen much of life, and you marked them with a look for men of rare experience; but the wisdom and the learning that had made Bolster merry, had rendered the principal sad and thoughtful. The face of the former was stamped with a grin that of the latter veiled with grief. At the feet of the tall man crouched an unsightly dog, remarkable for the mange, for leanness, and for his extraordinary resemblance to the gentleman who owned him. The two worthies were sitting at a deal table before a roaring fire. pewter pot containing porter was in the grasp of the unhappy principal, and a clay pipe was at his side. The table itself was ornamented with a quartern loaf, a lump of cheese, a pack of cards, one candle, and a cribbage board.

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The men rose as my father entered the shop, and Bolster greeted him with a cordial laugh, whilst the master eyed him with sorrow and compassion. I could not overhear their conversation. few minutes my father returned to

me.

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"The men will let us share their bread and cheese," said my father; it is too late to purchase any thing to-night, and there is nothing in the house besides. You must be hungry, Caleb ?"

"But what are these men to us, father? What wonderful change has taken place in our home. Where is my mother?"

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My father changed colour, and a spasm caught the muscles of his face. It is not my fault that you have not known of these matters before. have written to you many letters. have sought you many times. I have done my duty by you."

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"Indeed you have, my dearest father; and I have been ungrateful and unfilial. Believe me, I will be wiser for the future. Restore your confidence, and trust me."

The future! the future!" repeated my father, musingly," that will hardly repair the past. We will have some talk to-morrow, Caleb. It is a short history to recite, but a weighty one. We must not refuse these good men's hospitality, or they will take offence; and I tell you they may get us cast into the street. It does not

matter if I am thrown upon a dunghill. What would become of you? I must think of that ;-oh, yes, I ought to think of that."

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For the love of Heaven, I beseech you, my dear father, to explain yourself more fully-what power have these visiters over you? What right have they here?-what has happened?"

Nothing, Caleb," replied my father, who seemed alarmed at my tone and agitation; "nothing. It happens every day; do not be frightened; many better, wealthier men than I have suffered it, and have held up their heads again, and have got rich and prospered ; there is no disgrace in bankruptcy."

"Bankruptcy!" I exclaimed, my blood curdling at the dreadful thought. "Yes, bankruptcy !" reiterated my poor father, bursting into tears, which would not be suppressed; "it is too true, bankruptcy-shame-dishonour -ignominy! Every thing is gone; our name is blasted-our home is snatched from us the fair reputation, too, that has had no spot or stain for centuries, is soiled and smirched. They might have spared me this. Caleb, we are beggars, but this is least of all; if there were nothing else, they might take all, and welcome."

"Father, this is very sudden; I left you thriving, and in the midst of plenty."

"Yes, Caleb, and I left you innocent, and full of truth and promise. You are right; it has been sudden. We do not, indeed, meet as we parted." This was spoken with some bitterness, and I was immediately silenced.

"Come," resumed my father in a milder voice, " you shall take some supper, and then go to bed; all the news cannot be told at once. Remember, Caleb, we have not corresponded for months, and much may come to pass in a single hour-in a moment. You shall know all to-morrow. Do not let us keep the good men waiting; they must be our friends-come now.'

He walked again into the shop, and I followed him. Ill prepared as I was for eating, I dared not disobey him; a preying sense of past undutifulness robbed me of free will. Had it been left me, could I have exercised it in opposition to his wishes, when so much depended upon a cheerful compliance? The shop looked wretched indeed; the walls were stripped, and bales of mer

chandise were heaped upon the floor without order or care; they were marked and lotted. The large iron cupboard, which my father, for so many years, had nightly secured with double lock, and whose creaking hinges had so often sung a lullaby to his cashbooks and ledgers, stood open and deserted. The black shelves were empty; an open drawer displayed a few old banker's cheques, long since honoured, now crossed and valueless. Every other thing had been carried off. The shop itself, that was ever so neat and clean, and such a pattern of a place of business, was disfigured with the accumulated dust and dirt of weeks, and with the offscourings of shelves, whose tops had not been visited or disturbed for years before. You might have searched through London and not found a place so well equipped and qualified forthe broken heart. Mr Bolster and his companion rose again upon our entrance; a slight addition had been made to the repast-there was a second pewter pot; in other respects the table was as before described. I sat down with my meal already in my mouth— for my full heart was in it--and dared not look upon my unhappy parent for very grief and shame. I had scarcely seated myself when Mr Bolster began to grin, and to exhibit various sprightly contortions of his face, much more pleasing to himself than to me, who appeared to be the subject of them. He planted his laughing eyes upon me, and when I met them withdrew them suddenly; not however before he was overtaken by a violent impulse to indulge himself and laugh outright. The struggle between this natural force, and his acquired notions of good behaviour, caused his cheeks to swell, and his features to assume the lines and forms of a vast kaleidoscope. Somewhat offended, I turned to his superior, whose head I encountered, oscillating mournfully, pendulum fashion. Every movement carried with it a vote of censure-a volume of reproof. I sat uneasy and silent between the tutelary geniuses of tragedy and comedy, who presided over my unfortunate parent's once prosperous dwelling-place.

You have come from college, haven't you?" enquired Bolster, with a chuckle." You finished your eddication just in time. I hope you have

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